


Everyone is a Moon

by kateandbarrel



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateandbarrel/pseuds/kateandbarrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once I've figured you out, I'll move on." It's a year after Moriarty last saw Joan. And she hasn't moved on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone is a Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/gifts).



> Thank you to skieswideopen for the beta <3
> 
> _Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody._  
>  \- Mark Twain

Joan stretched, burrowing deeper into the blankets on her bed, relishing the quiet morning. It was rare she was able to wake up on her own, without Sherlock spewing a rapid-fire succession of words at her groggy brain. Or throwing clothes in her face. Or unleashing Clyde on her. She rolled over onto her side and snuggled her pillow, letting her eyes drift closed again. Yes, perfect.

She was almost asleep again when that perfect silence was broken. This time, not by Sherlock bursting into her room, but by her phone alerting her to a text message. And then another one. And _another_ one. Joan groaned and opened her eyes again.

"Always something," she muttered and grabbed her phone from the nightstand.

The messages were all from Gregson. A case? She opened the first one.

_Bad news. Moriarty released. All charges dropped._

Joan inhaled sharply. What? How? How could that have happened? There was so much evidence against her. She flipped to the next message, also from Gregson.

_I thought you should hear it from me first. I haven't told Sherlock. Wasn't sure if you wanted to be the one to break the news._

Joan turned to look at her closed bedroom door and strained her ears for sounds from downstairs. She didn't hear anything, which she took as a good sign. This news would not make Sherlock happy. Joan checked the last message.

_The system doesn't always work out for the good guys._

Joan could hear that last message playing in her head in Gregson's voice, laced with bitterness. Joan herself was finding it very hard not to denounce the entirety of the American legal system as a lost cause in that moment - what other explanation could there be for letting a criminal like Moriarty go free? 

She rubbed a hand on her face and sat up. There'd be no more sleep for her that morning.

***

Telling Sherlock the news had gone better than Joan expected. He'd just flexed the muscles in his jaw a bit, clenched his fists, and begged off to go tend to his bees. She figured he just needed a little time. And space.

And, hopefully, to never see Moriarty again. 

Joan felt fairly confident that, at least for the time being, Moriarty would leave Sherlock alone. She knew she didn't understand Moriarty like Sherlock did, but in the year since they last spoke with Moriarty, during the kidnapping case, Joan had spent the occasional evening _trying_ to understand her. 

She read Moriarty's letters to Sherlock several times, willingly incurring the wrath of the bees to retrieve them and replace them more than once. She reviewed old case files of Moriarty’s crimes, trying to identify motives and patterns. Meaning. Joan didn't spend a _lot_ of time ruminating on Jamie Moriarty, but, if she'd been honest with herself, she spent perhaps a bit more time thinking about her than was necessary. 

It had started out with just wanting to know a bit more about the woman who had had the upper hand on Sherlock for all those years. Sherlock Holmes was the most brilliant person Joan knew, at least until Moriarty had come onto the scene. Professional interest, Joan reasoned. It was her business to get into the minds of geniuses like Sherlock and Moriarty, so she herself could become the best detective she could.

But somewhere along the way, it morphed from professional curiosity into personal curiosity. What drove a woman like Moriarty? Joan had found herself comparing and contrasting Moriarty and Sherlock many times, trying to pinpoint what it was that made Sherlock want to solve crimes, and Moriarty to commit them. 

She hadn't figured out the answer. 

But, Joan felt like she'd spent enough time in Moriarty's head to at least partly predict her moves. Which is why she thought Moriarty would want to let Sherlock stew for a while. Once he knew she was out, he'd be on high alert right away. Moriarty would have to know that, and would want to let some time pass... six months, a year. Maybe longer. So that she was in the back of his mind, instead of the forefront, and her return into his life would be all the more jarring.

Joan was sure of this, and, in the end, Joan was right. Moriarty would not seek out Sherlock now that she was a free woman. What Joan didn't expect was for Moriarty to seek _her_ out.

***

Joan was on an afternoon jog, lost in her thoughts over the latest case she and Sherlock were working on. A suspicious suicide that was likely a murder, a long list of suspects, and no evidence to point at any of them in particular. An interesting enough case, and in normal circumstances, Joan would be enjoying the challenge. But her focus was splintered. Well - both hers _and_ Sherlock's. Though neither was readily admitting it in open conversation, they'd catch each other now and again with a far-away look, worrying a lip or staring at the wall, thoughts straying to their mutual blonde pain in the ass.

Joan wondered if Moriarty would be flattered by their combined inability to concentrate. Probably. She was just the type to revel in that accomplishment.

_Dammit._ Joan mentally kicked herself. She was thinking about Moriarty instead of the case. Again. She rolled her eyes at herself and jogged faster, hoping to exhaust Moriarty right out of her brain through physical activity. Her jogging escalated into running, and she was going so fast she wasn't paying attention to where she was going as closely as she should have been. Which led her to slamming right into the back of another jogger.

Joan bounced off the woman who'd gotten in her path, falling ungracefully to the ground, ass first. 

"Ow, shit," Joan exclaimed. "Sorry, I wasn't watching where I was going!"

The woman turned and offered a hand. "It’s quite alright. Can I help you up, Joan?" 

Joan froze. It was the sound of the voice more than the fact that this random jogger knew her name. Even after a year... Joan couldn't forget the sound of it. Her gaze travelled from the hand being proffered, up the arm, and right into the face of Jamie Moriarty. 

"What. The hell. Are you doing here?" Joan ignored the hand and stood quickly, taking a few steps back from the woman. She looked around quickly, noting how many other people were around on the same path, jogging, biking, walking. She felt a bit safer with that. Moriarty was unlikely to try anything in front of dozens of witnesses.

Moriarty took her unaccepted hand back gracefully, and smiled. “I’m jogging. See?” She swept a hand down her own body, and it was then Joan noted the ridiculous get up she was wearing. Hot pink running shorts, a t-shirt emblazoned with the phrase “RUN LIKE YOU STOLE SOMETHING,” a crisply white, obviously brand new pair of sneakers, and knee-high athletic socks, complete with red stripes along the top. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy side ponytail. 

Joan just barely kept herself from bursting out laughing. It looked like a parody of a jogging outfit. Like something a porn star would wear in a jog-in-the-park-that-turns-to-sex scenario. That thought sobered Joan immediately, considering what her role would be in such a scenario.

She leveled Moriarty with an incredulous look. “Are you joking? You look ridiculous.”

Moriarty looked wounded, not that Joan bought it for a second. “I tried very hard, Joan. I have been out of the steady stream of societal trends for quite some time. You have to forgive any _faux pas_ I may make. Time has passed me by.”

“Are you always this melodramatic? You were in custody for a year. And you got to take day trips and read newspapers and watch tv.” 

Someone jogged by the pair and gave them a dirty look. Joan realized they were still standing in the middle of the path, blocking it. Moriarty smiled and motioned towards a nearby bench. Joan just stared at her, so Moriarty shrugged and walked to the bench by herself.

Joan weighed her options. Sitting with Moriarty and talking with her more would only encourage the woman. Whatever schemes or ideas she had likely relied on Joan not being able to resist talking to her. Which is why that was _exactly_ what Joan should have done. She looked wistfully down the path, knowing she should just resume jogging, go home, take a shower, and bury herself in the case with Sherlock. She knew that was what she should do. But her curiosity was quickly taking over the reason centers of her brain, and the desire to know just what Moriarty was up to was too much. (Was this what Sherlock felt, when it came to Moriarty?)

She looked over to the bench where Moriarty was sitting primly, legs crossed, somehow managing to make the ridiculous outfit look refined, and staring at Joan with one of those annoying smiles on her face.

Joan sighed. Sherlock was going to be pissed at her for this.

“You get ten minutes,” Joan said as she flopped down onto the bench, keeping plenty of distance between her and Moriarty.

“Testy,” Moriarty smirked. “Did you eat a proper breakfast this morning, Joan? Sound nutrition is important when engaging in exercise.”

“What do you want?” Joan kept an edge to her voice. She was already betraying her own common sense, and Moriarty knew she’d won that battle the moment Joan sat down. But she didn’t need to give her more fuel for this fire. _Act annoyed, impatient, end this meeting quickly,_ Joan told herself. _As soon as you figure out what is going on._

“I just wanted to say hello. It’s been a long time. How is Sherlock? He seemed quite upset when we parted last.” There was almost an imperceptible twitch of Moriarty’s wrist as she said this. The movement would have gone completely unnoticed by most people, and even by Joan herself, before all the time she’d spent with Sherlock.

“We’re not talking about Sherlock.” Joan crossed her arms. “Leave him alone.”

Moriarty smiled faintly. “Truly, Joan, I have no intentions otherwise. I am quite certain I could walk into that decrepit old house you two call a home, fall whimpering into his arms, and he would do whatever I asked of him.”

Joan disagreed with that, but she didn’t think Moriarty needed to know it. If Moriarty thought Sherlock was whipped, it was to their advantage. And if she left him alone because of it, all the better. 

“Would it surprise you to know that I find that boring?” Moriarty continued.

“No, it wouldn’t.” 

“It’s because I understand him too well,” Moriarty sighed. “Don’t get me wrong. I still care for him, in my own way. But I need more of a challenge in my life.”

This entire conversation was surreal to Joan. It almost felt like they were having a _girl talk_. “You could always try to live life like a normal person.” 

Moriarty laughed, a loud and boisterous laugh, as if Joan had just told a top-tier joke.

“I was being serious,” Joan muttered. She decided to go for the offensive. “Why are you in New York?”

“Why not?”

“Because nobody wants you here.” Joan’s words came out more light-hearted than she’d intended. She wanted Moriarty gone, out of her life, out of Sherlock’s life. Why was it so hard to say the words like she meant it?

“I doubt very much anyone wants me anywhere. I am apparently rather infamous now.” 

“And you love it.” Was this what Moriarty wanted? Fame? Adulation, or fear, or any emotion as long as the attention came with it?

Moriarty wrinkled her nose. “Not really. It makes being a criminal mastermind a bit harder when so many know your face.”

“I bet nobody knows your face in Serbia.”

“A bit cold there, don’t you think?”

“I’ll buy you one of those fur hats as a going-away present.”

Moriarty laughed again, but this time it was more of a delicate laugh. Tinkly. Joan had to admit it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She’d wondered all along how Sherlock remained ensnared by this woman, and being up close to Moriarty, Joan had to admit she could understand it.

“So do you intend to restart your old business?” Joan asked. “Complex webs of intrigue, far-reaching schemes, general mayhem?”

“I’ve considered it.” Moriarty pauses, and drapes an arm over the back of the bench, turning her body more towards Joan. “Would you like it if I did?”

Joan blinked. “What? No. Of course not. You’re a terrible person and you should be in jail.”

“And yet.” Moriarty smiled. “You’re like me, Joan. Drawn to things you don’t understand.”

Joan was sure she should be insulted by the comparison between the two of them. And dammit, she tried to be. But a hint of _flattered_ slipped in. For all her moral failings, Moriarty was still a genius. “I understand you well enough.”

“Did you expect to see me here, today? Or at all? You knew I would come back, eventually. But not so soon after my release. Correct?”

Joan stayed silent, not willing to verbally admit that Moriarty was right about something. Moriarty apparently didn’t expect an answer, because she kept talking.

“You don’t know me as well as you think, Joan. Nor do I, you. Wouldn’t it be fun if we learned more about one another?”

“What are you suggesting?” The words were out of Joan’s mouth before she could think them through.

She really didn’t want Moriarty to know anything more about herself than she already did. But Joan _did_ want to know more about what made Moriarty tick. To understand her better would mean it would be easier to catch her the next time she screwed up. (And lead to a better chance of keeping her locked up for good.)

It was just curiosity.

“Well, we could start with dinner. Tonight? Just you and me?”

“Dinner?” Joan sputtered. It almost felt like she was being asked out. Joan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“8pm? At _Dos Colinas?_ ”

“Doesn’t that place have a waitlist of months?”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “Really Joan? You think that is an impediment for me?”

“Fine. 8pm. See you there.” Joan stood up. “Try not to wear something ridiculous tonight. I don’t want you embarrassing me.”

 

“Of course, Joan.” Moriarty almost purred the words, the sound not too unlike a cat who’d toyed with its prey before moving in for the death blow.

Joan said nothing more, but resumed her jog, leaving Moriarty on the bench. She refused the impulse to look back, but she could feel Moriarty’s eyes boring into her.

What the hell did she just agree to? 

***

Sherlock didn’t even bat an eye when Joan said she had a date that night. (She hated lying to Sherlock, but “I have a date” sounds a lot better than “I’m going to have dinner with your arch-nemesis who also happens to be your ex because I just need to know what is going on in her brain.”) The case had rammed headfirst into a brick wall, and Sherlock seemed like he was looking forward to a night of staring at the papers and photos strung on the wall, letting the details ruminate in his own head.

So, Joan left him camped out on the couch so she could meet the enemy in secret.

God, it sounded awful in her head, and she knew it was awful. But despite knowing that it wasn’t too late, she could back out now, and in fact she _should_ back out - she had to go. 

_Dos Colinas_ was bustling, with a full dining room, as usual. It was one of those highly talked up places with a young, superstar chef that everyone admired. It also probably meant it would only last a few years before the coolness factor dropped off and it closed its doors. But for now, it was one of the most desirable restaurants in town to eat at. 

Joan gave her name to the hostess almost haltingly, at the last minute wondering if this wasn’t an embarrassing prank on Moriarty’s part, and there were no dinner plans, and security would be escorting her out of the building at any moment. But even Moriarty wasn’t that childish. The hostess consulted a pad of paper in front of her, found what she was looking for, and smiled at Joan.

“Right this way.”

Joan followed behind the woman, weaving through the tables towards one near the back, partially hidden by a partition. It figures that not only would Moriarty net a reservation at one of the most sought-after restaurants in the city, it would be the best table too.

Joan sat down… at the empty table. She checked her watch. 8:12pm. She’d purposely shown up late, to show Moriarty that this wasn’t something she was eager about. She managed to show up before Moriarty anyway. The hostess promised the arrival of a waiter soon, and left.

She didn’t have to wait long. After a couple minutes, Joan noticed a blonde figure moving effortlessly through the crowded tables. Her hair was done up in an elaborate knot of curls at the back of her head, and she wore a form-fitting emerald-green sheath dress that looked, well, gorgeous on her. Moriarty took a roundabout path to the table, almost as if she was enjoying all the eyes on her, and wanted to draw out the feeling.

Joan shook her head while Moriarty took the seat across from her. 

“Well? Is my outfit embarrassing, Joan? Or did I _do good_?” She said the words ‘do good’ in an American accent. 

“It’s fine,” Joan said, not willing to pay her a straight-up compliment. She picked up the wine list and made a show of carefully considering the options, even though the words were little more than a blur in front of her. All her peripheral vision was focused on Moriarty, smiling her damn annoying half-smile.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am?” Moriarty asked, after a moment.

“Nope. I know how you are. You’re a criminal.” Joan put the wine list down. Her eyes were already feeling strained. 

“That’s _what_ I am, not how.” Moriarty picked up the wine list herself, quickly scanning it, nodding, then putting it down.

Joan noted how quick she was to make decisions. Either that, or she already knew what she wanted. 

“Have you been here before?” Joan asked.

“That’s better,” Moriarty asked. “Yes, once. American-Mexican fusion food, somewhat predictable, but they do it well enough. And I like the restaurant’s name. _Dos Colinas_.”

Her pause forced Joan to ask a follow-up question. “What does it mean?” Joan’s Spanish was spotty at best. “Two something?”

“‘Two hills.’ The chef chose it for, fittingly, two reasons. One, his childhood home was situated between two hills. Two, for his parents, who taught him to cook while struggling to raise a family on their meager income. He feels he owes his success to them.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, who took their wine orders (Joan forgot to ever actually pick a wine, so she ended up just getting the same as Moriarty), and talked about the specials. He finally left with a promise to be back in a few minutes.

“You’re very interested in partnerships,” Joan said, returning to their conversation.

Moriarty merely raised an eyebrow.

“Your on-again off-again thing with Sherlock. This restaurant, with the chef’s heart-warming story of his parents. The interest you have in my and Sherlock’s partnership.”

“I do find it baffling how any two people could possibly have enough in common to succeed.” Moriarty picked up her menu, but again, merely glanced it over then put it down again.

Joan looked at her own menu, and decided on the first thing her eyes landed on that sounded edible. Two could play at this game. She put the menu on top of Moriarty’s. “Humans are good at joining forces with one another.”

“Are you implying something about my humanity?”

“No. I know you’re human. I just think you’re a sociopath.”

Moriarty uttered a small laugh. “I do, in fact, have emotions, Joan. I simply push them aside and get on with things.”

“That sounds sad.”

Moriarty was prevented from replying by the return of the waiter. Joan ordered soup, and she couldn’t tell what Moriarty ordered, since it was all in Spanish. Once the waiter had left, Moriarty returned her gaze to Joan. 

She didn’t much like being stared at by Moriarty. Joan would never know what a dissection felt like - since presumably she’d be dead if she were to undergo one - but Moriarty’s calculating stare was close enough.

“I’m _not_ sad,” Moriarty ground out.

“Sorry, I guess you pushed that emotion aside.” Joan tilted her head to the side. “Is this evening going like you planned?”

“Not especially. But at least I am entertained.” Moriarty’s face smoothed out and one of her little smiles quirked at one corner of her mouth. “You’re frustrating, Joan.”

Was that a complaint, or compliment? Or both? It was so impossible to tell with Moriarty. “Thanks,” was what Joan came up with.

“I like frustrating. Puzzles should always be at least a little frustrating, don’t you think?”

Joan may not have agreed with her that puzzles _should_ be frustrating, but Moriarty was a puzzle, and she was frustrating as hell. So maybe she wasn’t wrong. “Could be,” she replied noncommittally.

Joan mentally kicked herself to break out of the little mutual admiration society she apparently had fallen into with Moriarty. _It’s all because I read those damn letters,_ Joan thought. _Should have stayed away._

Their food came during Joan’s internal self-flagellation. It turned out Moriarty had ordered some sort of meat dish. Her plate held a cut of beef surrounded by small colored blobs and sauce splotches, as was customary for a restaurant this fancy. Joan had gotten soup - tortilla soup. It smelled a little spicy, and it smelled _delicious_ , but Joan wasn’t hungry. Her thoughts were more than a little consumed with the woman in front of her, who was ignoring Joan in favor of her own meal. 

Joan found she wanted more of this discourse with Moriarty. It never seemed to be enough - her answers to questions never quite satisfied, as if by design. And it probably was. But Joan almost enjoyed this bizarre back and forth they’d been having. 

Is this what happened to Sherlock?

No, he fell in love with Irene, the painter. But he stayed in love with Moriarty, the criminal. This felt a little more honest for Joan. Moriarty had been Moriarty almost the entire time Joan had known her. There was no hiding out there. No old persona to fall back on. 

“Not hungry, Joan?”

She snapped out of her reverie and realized she’d been staring. Joan looked down at her bowl and picked up her spoon. “I had a late lunch,” she lied. She put a spoonful of the soup in her mouth anyway. It _was_ delicious.

“Do you not have a self-preservation instinct, Joan?”

The question startled Joan. Moriarty talking about preservation was never good. “Of course I do.” 

The fact that Joan had been ignoring that very same instinct ever since she first bumped into Moriarty was neither here nor there.

“Then why do you jog the exact same route, every time?” Moriarty dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin, the picture of class. “You’re constantly hunting down criminals, some of whom surely must wish to hurt you before being caught. By jogging the same route, you open yourself to attack.”

“Like yours?”

Moriarty grinned. “I wouldn’t use that word, but yes, I suppose. Although frankly in my case I could have simply knocked on your door and achieved the same result.”

Joan put down her spoon. “I’m not afraid.”

Moriarty was obviously waiting for her to continue, but that was all Joan intended to say. “I don’t understand.”

“People who do things like change the path they jog on every day are people who are living in constant fear. I don’t. I can face whatever comes at me.” Joan thought that came out nice and courageous sounding. “I’m facing you right now. Some two-bit criminal who kills a loved one in a jealous fit, or for money, is hardly a threat in comparison.”

A slow smile spread across Moriarty’s face. Joan had just complimented her, although unintentionally. 

“We should do this again, don’t you think?” Moriarty asked. 

Joan’s heart rate spiked. Getting through an evening with Moriarty had been difficult enough. But doing it again? “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not. This has been very educational for me.”

Joan had to admit it had been for her as well. Moriarty craved attention, compliments. And even more so, she seemed to enjoy having one person around to regularly give those things to her. Was Joan the next person in line for that role? 

Why wasn’t that possibility as immediately repulsive as it should have been?

“You’re a murderer,” Joan said, trying to talk herself away from the edge.

“I fail to see how that is relevant at the moment.”

“It’s relevant because murderers aren’t people I generally like to associate with.”

“Oh Joan, it was never for fun. You know that.” Moriarty leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “If it makes you feel better, I promise not to murder you.”

Joan raised an eyebrow.

“ _Or_ Sherlock,” Moriarty continued. She leaned back in her seat again. “Feel better?”

“Bizarrely... yes,” Joan said. 

Moriarty reached across the table and delicately ran a finger down Joan’s hand. Joan resisted the urge to yank her hand away, not wanting to give Moriarty the satisfaction. Or did she expect Joan to refuse that urge, and thus that was the point? (Joan was going to be forever second-guessing Moriarty’s motives, wasn’t she?) 

Her hand felt tingly where Moriarty had touched it.

“So let’s do it again,” Moriarty pushed on before Joan could say anything about what had just happened. “You may pick the restaurant next time, if you wish.”

“Does it have to be food?” Joan asked, glancing down at her barely-touched soup. Moriarty set Joan on edge, being this close to her, and alone with her. It made hunger all but disappear. 

“I suppose not. We could jog together!” Moriarty’s tone was light, but there was clear mischief behind her eyes.

Moriarty was _teasing_ her.

“God, no,” Joan said.

“Or a walk. We could go on a walk through the park. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?”

Joan couldn’t believe she was even considering this. After all the things she’d said to Sherlock… and here she was, unable to turn away from the great Jamie Moriarty herself. “Sure.” Her voice was just above a whisper and she cleared her throat embarrassedly. “Why not. Maybe you’ll slip one day and reveal something I can take to the police and have you arrested with.”

_Nice save, Joan._

“Of course. No one would assume otherwise.”

Eventually, after Moriarty and Joan had both pushed away their dishes, the waiter came and retrieved them. They both refused dessert, and they were left with the bill, which Moriarty insisted on picking up in full. “I don’t do dutch,” she’d said, eliciting an eye roll from Joan. 

Outside of the restaurant, it was chilly, and dark, and Joan suddenly felt a bit less safe in Moriarty’s presence than she had in the crowded restaurant. She reminded herself of Moriarty’s promise - if her word could be trusted, that was.

Joan, somehow, felt that it was.

She watched as Moriarty got the attention of the valet outside and asked him to flag down a cab. The valet rushed to do as she asked. It was as if the young boy had an animalistic sixth sense that told him Moriarty was not someone to trifle with; she was someone you wanted to please. 

“I’m afraid this is where we shall have to part for now,” Moriarty said. “I have to go out of town tomorrow on business and must make my way back to my hotel, in the opposite direction.”

“‘Business’?” Joan asked.

“Do you really want to know? If you want to know Joan, I will tell you.”

Joan’s mouth dropped open a little, in surprise. Moriarty was playing with her - had to be. Joan breathed in sharply as Moriarty came closer, invading her space, eyes boring into her own. 

“I will tell you everything. Perhaps there is some information you could relay to Captain Gregson. You could have me arrested this very eve.”

Moriarty’s eyes, usually light, were dark in the dim night. Joan couldn’t tear her own away. 

“You would never see me again,” Moriarty whispered. “I would rot in jail.”

She was inches from Joan now. At this distance she could smell Moriarty’s soap - a particular brand many of the upscale hotels in the area provided for their guests. Joan’s eyes fell to Moriarty’s lips, which held that typical quirked smile she was so fond of displaying. Such an annoying smile. Joan was suddenly struck with one or two ways she could wipe that smile off Moriarty’s face.

“Do you want to know, Joan?”

Joan’s eyes snapped back up to Moriarty’s. “No,” she whispered. 

“I didn’t think so.” Moriarty placed her hand against Joan’s cheek, thumb stroking lightly. She barely had time to process this before Moriarty’s lips were on her own.

The kiss was chaste. Not insistent, but… questioning. Joan should push her away. This was ridiculous. But she found that she was rooted to the spot. Her feet might as well have been encased in concrete. Joan tried to find her inner strength.

Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, and her lips opened slightly. An acquiescence. 

Moriarty deepened the kiss. The night was a bit chilly, but all Joan felt was a searing heat emanating from Moriarty so close to her. She was dimly aware of the arrival of a cab and the valet hovering nearby nervously - Joan was pleased in that moment that even in the middle of the strangest kiss of her life, her observational skills were still at least partly in working order - but she and Moriarty ignored them. Moriarty’s lips were softer than she expected, and her breath was sweet despite the recent meal. Joan kissed her back as well as she could, though she felt breathless from outrageousness of what they were doing.

There was absolutely nothing unpleasant about kissing Jamie Moriarty.

As soon as Joan came to this realization, Moriarty pulled away. Joan immediately missed the feel of her lips. _Snap out of it, Joan!_

“I’m very much enjoying this game of cat and mouse of ours, Joan,” Moriarty smiled. She gently took hold of Joan’s arm and steered her towards the waiting cab. “I’ll contact you once I’m back in town. Then we can see about meeting again, yes?”

Moriarty somehow managed to ask for agreement in a way that left no possibility for the answer of “no.” Joan nodded, unable to find her voice. She let herself be ushered into the cab. 

Moriarty leaned into the open cab door. “Goodnight, Joan.”

Joan looked at Moriarty. She was beautiful, of course. That was never a question. But it was a dangerous beauty. Joan had let herself be lured there, thinking she could ever have the upper hand, until Moriarty had kissed her and made it clear that she didn’t. Brilliant, beautiful, manipulative Moriarty. Joan didn’t think she could let her go.

Moriarty was right. Joan didn’t have a self-preservation instinct at all.

“Goodnight,” Joan said. Moriarty closed the door, and the cabbie took off down the street. Joan rattled off her address and sank back into the car seat. It smelled faintly of booze and cigarette smoke, but Joan found she was having a hard time not collapsing into a puddle of expended adrenaline at the moment.

Wait. Smell. Why did Moriarty smell like hotel soap? A woman with expensive and particular tastes would deign to use a tiny bar of free soap? Never.

Was this a clue? Was Moriarty testing her? Maybe she could find the particular soap brand. And from there narrow it down… Moriarty had said her hotel was in the _opposite_ direction of the brownstone. 

_This shouldn’t be this fun,_ Joan chastised herself, but she gave in to a grin anyway. She had a long night of searching through scent databases ahead of her.


End file.
